Study in Black
by Northern Nightingale
Summary: She sat comfortably on the sofa and began typing: Dear Mr. Holmes... Sherlock H. / O.C.
1. Chapter 1

**Notes:  
1. **English is not my first language so I guess some (I really hope just a few) grammar, syntax and vocabulary errors should be expected.  
**2. **This is my first fanfic ever and basically more of an experiment.  
**3. **Rated **M** for later chapters.  
**4. **Original title was "The Science of Attraction" but I found out that it was taken. (So much for originality)  
**5. **Reviews, comments, corrections and recommendations will be highly appreciated!

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**CHAPTER 1**

So, there she was again. An overly grey November evening, leaving three quid on the scratched wooden counter of a snug little place called "Speedy's". She heard the little bell dangling above the entrance chime cheerfully while her lace-up biker boots touched the pavement in front of the cafe. Sipping from the steaming paper cup, she took another glimpse of the black door with the golden numbers and the elegantly elaborate door knocker. 221B Baker St., her newly acquired obsession. It's been almost two weeks now and she still didn't feel bored even though she hadn't seen the man himself. That, she thought, ought to be a big improvement since her last attempt to force some interest in her drub mundane life. Even though, she had to admit, there was something utterly childish about this new habit. She just couldn't bring herself to stop, not yet.

Wrapping her black leather jacket tightly around her, she crossed the street feeling the biting cold against her fair skin. With one hand holding the jacket in place and the other gripping the hot cup she hissed a curse for not having a third one to tidy the annoying strands of long dark hair that flew in front of – and some of them _into_ – her eyes with the sudden gust of air. Shaking her head violently to get rid of the stubborn locks she continued her inaudible mumble all the way to her building at Upper Berkley St., while fishing the keys out of her backpack, climbing the stairs to the 3rd floor and down the corridor, where her mutter gradually came to a halt upon the realization that the door to her flat was wide open. No signs of a break-in as far as she could tell.

Now, she never considered herself to be particularly brave, she was more of the staying-out-of-trouble, knowing-your-place, freezing-when-scared type of girl but something inside her head – probably plain old stupidity – told her that she had nothing to worry about, that nothing was actually wrong. Placing her now cold coffee on the floor next to the doorframe she reached once more for her backpack wanting to find something, _anything_, she could use as a weapon. Just in case... Her fingertips touched something cool and she fumbled with a slender metal object. After a few seconds of consideration she took it out and with a swift and practiced movement of her wrist the blade of her balisong was gleaming under the pale light above her head. Now she was armed – to use the term loosely – and feeling bold she slid inside her dark studio apartment with her right hand extended and slightly trembling. She tried to tread lightly but the wood floor was old and creaking. Pausing and wincing after every step, she got to the switch and flicked it to turn the lights on; nothing suspicious. Tiptoeing she got to the bathroom. Empty. Getting a bit anxious she started to look all over the place for anything that might give her the slightest clue for what had happened. She opened her wardrobe, the fridge, even the cupboards. When she started peeking under the bright red sofa she realized that she was in the midst of a delirium and forced herself to stop.

The door was now closed, locked and bolted. The paper "Speedy's" cup was accompanying those of the previous day and the day before that in the trashcan. Her backpack was hanging from the coat rack next to her jacket and her favorite red scarf. Her boots were thrown somewhere between her king-size bed and the kitchen and her beautiful butterfly knife was resting on the heavy black coffee table amongst sketch-books, pencils, markers and other drawing paraphernalia. She was still wearing the black leggings – without the knee-high loose skirt – and her worn out grey cashmere jumper. She had already checked all the windows and had found them securely closed.

Her landlord, Mr. Price, reassured her that he saw no one getting in or out the building while she was gone and she trusted the man. The fact that he told her it was probably her that left the door open fretted her a bit but she quickly came over it. She may be 25 but she also was quite childlike – in behavior and appearance alone mind you – and she could understand that a 72-year-old man would find it difficult to not rationalize that she was overreacting over an open door and an intact apartment. Plus she had forgotten her keys so many times it was easy to assume that maybe this time she had been so careless that she didn't realize the door had remained open while she was rushing out. All her other neighbors were either away or otherwise engaged but were all quick to jump to the conclusion that she was probably mistaken and just didn't close the door all the way. She knew that there was no point in calling the police since nothing was missing and everything was where it was supposed to be. She was the only person so sure that she was right, that something weird had happened here. Yet, strangely enough, she did not feel panic, just a tantalizing rush of adrenaline.

Then it hit her… Yeah… Why not?  
Of course she was in no position to pay the man but not everyone did after all. He was just a good-case-junky, at least that's what she had understood from this Watson character's blog. She wasn't sure if hers could qualify as a "good case" – after all there were no corpses involved, yet – but the least she could do was give it a try. It's been three weeks since she found his website, "The Science of Deduction", and just over two that she decided to try to meet him up close. She realized after a week's effort that this was not such an easy task – she hadn't even managed to merely _look_ at him – but she hadn't given up and now there emerged a wonderful opportunity to do so without having to creep up on the guy to which he was highly likely to not respond really well.

She sat comfortably on the sofa, her MacBook on her lap, and began typing:  
_Dear Mr. Holmes_…


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes:  
****1. **More of a flash back chapter but I had to set a basic background for the character.  
**2. **"The Temperance" is a pub at York Street.  
**3. **"Forbidden Planet" is a comic book store.  
**4.** I've never been to these places - I've never even been to London - so any names and descriptions are based on internet research. (For any mistakes blame Google...)  
**5. **_Promethea_ is a comic book series written by Alan Moore.  
**6. **Reviews, comments, corrections and recommendations are highly appreciated!

* * *

**CHAPTER 2**

She woke up on the sofa – complementing herself for going for comfort rather than value for once – struggling with the fuzzy orange blanket which she eventually rolled and hurled on the armchair on her way to the kitchen. She poured herself a cup of reheated yesterday's coffee and stood by the smudged window, her gaze on the waking Berkeley Street underneath. That morning was just like every other autumn morning at Marylebone; busy, cold and slightly depressing.

Since she'd moved there, two years ago, there had hardly been any change. In anything. She had started working at "The Temperance" almost immediately – her uncle proved to be a great asset – and even though she had changed a few apartments, the one she was currently renting had been her home for over eight months and everything indicated it would stay this way. Everything had been so calm and uneventful. _Had _been. Until that surprisingly warm mid-June afternoon outside "The Temperance", when she saw Chris again after one month. _That_ is when the stone was thrown and ripples began to form.

Chris was a very pleasant fellow and from the moment she laid eyes on him at "Forbidden Planet", at Soho, nine months ago, she _knew_ that she would like him. She vividly remembered holding _Promethea: Issue #23 _and him just staring at her. She'd smiled at him and they'd started talking. She had actually been relieved to finally have found a person with a mutual passion for comics. The next day they had met for coffee. And the day after that. And the day after that... They had grown close and not a day went by without even a text. Until April. Then he'd suddenly started disappearing for days and whenever they actually met he seemed distant and, at times, jumpy. He had mentioned his website about a superhero comic book series before but lately he had become obsessed with it. Some times he would even tell her he was actually seeing members of KRATIDES (the superhero organization in the comic books) around London. At first she'd thought he was just joking, then she'd begun to worry but by the time she was ready to tell him that he might need mental help, he had vanished.

She'd tried to reach him by any means she had, she'd even tried to communicate with some of his mates but to no avail. Most of them had told her that he had gone insane, that he had lost it. And while all his social network accounts were swarming with his absurdities, he just wouldn't answer her messages or pick up his phone. And then, one day, she'd seen it, the answer to all this madness. He had posted that he in fact _was _seeing members of KRATIDES but it was all a huge publicity stunt orchestrated by the publishing company. After that he had got in touch again, they'd resumed their weekly meetings and he'd explained everything that had happened in full detail.

It turned out that the only man who had been willing to help him was a guy named Sherlock Holmes – really, who names their child _Sherlock_? - and his assistant Dr. John Watson. He'd told her that he was a consulting detective – the only one in the world apparently – and a very, _very_ weird man; imposing, haughty and smart, frighteningly so. His description of him and his modus operandi had truly impressed her to the point where, as a joke really, she'd proposed they make a graphic novel based on him. Chris had been thrilled...

She on the other hand didn't give it much thought and actually forgot about it. Life went on as usual; going to work, meeting with friends whenever she could and drawing the occasional meaningless crap. She knew that she was going nowhere with her drawing. Her skill was tolerable – Chris told her she had genuine _talent_ – but her ideas were... well, nonexistent. She couldn't even remember the last time she drew something original, the last time she actually created something. All the countless hours of practicing, the never-ending studies on anatomy, shadow and light, shapes and forms had all been going to waist just because she couldn't think of anything to draw. She'd been keeping on researching about artists and art styles hoping she would find the slightest hint of inspiration but after five years of nothingness she had begun to realize that it was pointless, she would never become an illustrator – let alone a comic book artist, this also required writing skills. She would remain a cook – she just couldn't bring herself to call her a _chef_ – for the rest of her life.

Her little joke though settled within Chris and after a few weeks he'd reminded her of Holmes and her idea. She had laughed at first but after a few beers and a whole evening of her friend talking about him and how extraordinary he was she began to reconsider and realize the potential of such a venture. The most interesting part was that she wouldn't have to think of a plot, it was right there, his cases. She had caught glimpses of him on telly and people talking about his brilliance and effectiveness. So she decided to do her research, learn as much as possible for the mysterious Sherlock Holmes and his sidekick, John Watson. Thus she'd found _The Science of Deduction _and, consequently, Dr. Watson's blog which had proved very helpful on making out their characters and the role each one played in this dynamic duo. But it hadn't been enough. If she were to create a piece of art out of them she would have to meet them in person, talk to them, _know _ them. Ideally. Of course if that didn't work she could always improvise but first she would have to try.

And just like that, almost four months after the idea of turning Sherlock Holmes into a comic book character – not so far from the truth anyway as far as she could tell – had formed in her brain, she found herself getting out of "The Temperance" one windy October afternoon and walking up Baker Street until she had reached 221B. She had just stood there for about half an hour that first time, and then left. Since then it became a habit, every day, right after work, she would go and grab a cup of coffee at "Speedy's" whenever it was open or stand on the other side of the road if it was too late and just stare at the windows of the detective's apartment. The only thing she'd seen so far were mere shadows behind the curtains and sometimes she could hear the muffled sound of a violin. These days she would walk home with a bizarre feeling of accomplishment in her gut.

The most astonishing thing was that since she had begun her own little "investigation" her whole flat – and _head _for that matter – was constantly filled with all things Sherlock. Both her laptop and her desktop were now filled with information on him. The kitchen table, the coffee table, the chairs, even the bathroom counter were covered with newspaper clippings, printed pictures and sketches of a dark-haired man on a funny hat.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes:  
****1. **Happy New Year everyone! :D  
**2. **I'm sorry for the delay but life _really _got in the way.  
**3. **Reviews, comments, corrections and recommendations are highly appreciated (or maybe _needed _even)!

* * *

**CHAPTER 3**

It was the 25th of November and the cold was merciless, piercing her skin even through several layers of clothing. The temperature was forming little crystals hanging from her nostrils. Or so, she thought, she should be depicted in a comic book page. With that image flashing through her mind she, once again, started wondering _how _ she could transfer the great detective and his friend on paper. It was one of the biggest issues she had these past few weeks, trying to determine the right style for the graphic novel she and Chris agreed on making. Her mind roamed to Pietro for a while, an old acquaintance of hers whom she had met years back at some art lessons she had taken right before college. He was still an art student, more interested in sculpture now, but with a huge understanding of all the visual arts and a person with taste really close to hers.

Turning left to Baker St., her brain reverted at once to the more pressing matter that was the reason of her little stroll, the appointment she had with the world's sole consulting detective…

She couldn't recall the last time she'd felt so nervous. This feeling could only be compared to public speech or public nudity – or possibly these two combined – in her mind. But she wouldn't stop now, she had already gone too far to back down. Her mind racing and her heart eager to jump off her body at any moment. An enticing combination of fear, expectation, anguish and glee sent an intense pang to her chest and waves of pulsating discomfort through her stomach. And yet she was decided, she had to meet them, she had to meet _him_. So, exhaling loudly and bowing her head in surrender, she raised her quivering fist and knocked on the black door with the gold digits.

A few devastating moments later she heard footsteps from the other side of the hard wood. They reminded her of when, many years back, her cousin, Mark, would always cοme to open the door of their summer house at Lynmouth with a blissful trot, whenever she visited with her parents. The door opened and a huge cordial grin greeted her cheerfully. It belonged to a slightly taller, ash-blond man who, she guessed, was John Watson.

"Hello! Please, come on upstairs, it's positively freezing out there!" he said letting her get inside and closing the door behind them.

"So, you must be Melanie" he started while climbing up the stairs.

"Yes. You must be Dr. Watson."

"John, please" he replied softly while turning to look back at her.

She followed him through the dingy corridor, past another black door and into one of the oddest and simultaneously most beautiful living rooms she'd ever seen. The whole room was a wonderful mess; moldy old books, shabby furniture that somehow still looked expensive, torn wallpaper with a bullet-punctured smiley face outlined with vivid yellow spray paint, a suspiciously realistic human skull next to a pile of envelopes skewered on the mantelpiece with a knife and, to add to the whole eeriness of the set, flying dust specks glittering under the pale morning winter sun. She just stood there for a few seconds, dumbfounded, absorbing the place around her, memorizing as many details as she could for her later sketches.

John Watson, misreading her awkward silence, started to apologize for the untidiness mentioning something about two bachelors under the same roof and the obvious lack of a woman's touch. At these last two words the edges of his ever-present smile turned uncomfortably.

"It's unconventional." she said, reassuring him with a warm smile and his became normal again.

"Do you find conventions displeasing?" there came a deep voice from another room.

Melanie turned and saw Sherlock emerge from the kitchen. Having spent hours after hours of studying his features she could recognize his face anywhere – and that unmistakable hair. Looking from his toes up, she realized that he was _much _ taller than she'd anticipated. He was wearing dark blue dress pants and a funereal purple shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows and the top button undone, revealing copious amounts of lean and long limbs and neck covered in almost translucent pale skin. She was momentarily startled not so much from his appearance alone as from how much he matched his bizarre surroundings. Blinking once she regained her coherence.

"Not displeasing, no. Just boring." she replied, her jolly dark eyes overshadowing the slight impudence in her voice. And right then she could swear she saw a tiny little mischievous glint in his eyes, almost conspiratorial.

John offered her a seat on the sofa and asked whether she'd like a cup of tea or coffee. He seemed like the most amiable man there could ever be, easy to talk to, attentive and discreet. He went on with his small talk while making tea, trying to make her feel comfortable even though she really wasn't particularly _un_comfortable. She was still thankful though since Sherlock stood by the window, staring outside – at the exact spot she always stands when she pays her secret visits – and appearing totally indifferent to her and to whatever she had to say for herself, her studies, her job or her hobbies.

Once they were all seated John urged her to talk about the case she said she had for them. She told them every little detail regarding her apartment and the state she found it in the night of the 21st. She didn't forget to mention the slightly open door that everyone in her building thought was her fault, her trying to find something to protect herself with, the fact that there was no trace of anyone _breaking _and entering, just entering. Nevertheless, she _accidentally_ forgot to mention anything that had to do with her newfound project regarding them, Mr Sherlock Holmes and Dr John Watson...

"Why would a 25-year-old comic book artist wander with a balisong in her backpack?" asked Sherlock, elbows resting on his knees, fingers intertwined and his indexes pressed onto his lips, arching an eyebrow. It was more like a question to himself but she answered anyway noticing that he called her a "comic book artist" and not a cook, which was her current occupation.

"It was a gift from an old friend." she said calmly, sipping her steaming tea, trying to forget anything else that went with that statement.

"An old friend…" he repeated absentmindedly. "There is sadness in the tone of your voice so he or she is not your friend any more. But since you carry this token of your lost friendship that person was and probably still is important to you. People tend to bond enormously in their adolescence, so this person should be someone from that period of your life, possibly of the same age. Something happened though. Since we are talking teenagers I am guessing a huge drama, a hormone ridden fight that haunts you till that day and you are still not on speaking terms."

"Close enough" was the only thing that escaped her lips before she closed her eyes for a fleeting moment, steadying herself internally so as not to break down in front of two strangers. She set her half-empty cup on the table beside her, cleared her throat and added "I don't think there is anything else, unless you have more questions?", turning to face Sherlock preparing herself for a full frontal assault/investigation.

Sherlock stood, eyes fixed on hers, studying her. "Wha-?"

"No!" John cut him off, eyes throwing flames at his insensitive friend. "That would be all. We will call you for anything that might transpire" he said with an overwhelmingly bright smile, standing as well and escorting her to the street door.

"Thank you for accepting to help me" Melanie said while extending her hand to the doctor.

"I don't know why, but Sherlock thinks there is something fishy going on. And if he thinks there is something fishy…" he stopped midsentence not wanting to mention anything grim in case of upsetting the girl who was obviously reminded of something she did _not _want to remember.

"There is usually a corpse involved?" she filled in, wanting to reassure him that she was alright. "I have read your blog Dr. Watson" she added smiling softly.

"John, please" he responded shaking her hand perkily and bidding her goodbye closing the door silently.

She stood outside the door for a while, processing everything she'd seen and everything that had been said inside this house attempting to rid herself of all these unpleasant flashbacks she was getting due to the detective's unexpected query on her butterfly knife. Needless to say she failed miserably and decided to go back to her house and draw herself a nice hot bath and have a luscious glass of mulled wine to relax. After all it was still noon, maybe the rest of the day would prove to be more pleasant under the haze of mild alcohol overuse.


End file.
